And Of Me Say The Fools: I Entered The Lodges Of Women And Never Left. And They Call For My Hanging, Because About The Matters Of My Beloved I, Poetry, Compose. I Never Traded Like Others In Hashish. I Never Stole. I Never Killed. I, In Broad Day, Have Loved. Have I Sinned? And Of Me Say The Fools: With My Poetry I Violated The Sky'S Commands. Said Who Love Is The Honor-Ravager Of The Sky? The Sky Is My Intimate. It Cries If I Cry, Laughs If I Laugh And Its Stars Greatens Their Brilliance If One Day I Fall In Love. What So If In The Name Of My Beloved I Chant, And Like A Chestnut Tree In Every Capital I, Her, Plant. Fondness Will Remain My Calling, Like All Prophets. And Infancy, Innocence And Purity. I Will Write Of My Beloved'S Matters Till I Melt Her Golden Hair In The Sky'S Gold. I Am, And I Hope I Change Not, A Child Scribbling On The Stars' Walls The Way He Pleases, Till The Worth Of Love In My Homeland Matches That Of The Air, And To Love Dreamers I Become A Diction-Ary, And Over Their Lips I Become An A And A B.